The Lesson of the Red Light

Our family experienced a milestone this week when our youngest got her much awaited driver’s license. It’s a scene that is played out and celebrated all over America. Proud new drivers grasping their little temporary licenses so tightly, the ink may wear off, posing for a picture to post on social media announcing to the world that they have been given this much coveted freedom. Our daughter was no different. Smiling broadly, with a look of sheer gratification on her face, she let her dad take the picture knowing that life had now changed for the better and she had the little piece of paper to prove it. What the camera didn’t capture was me, quickly and as inconspicuously as possible, wiping away the tears that spilled out of my eyes. I’m grateful for that and not because I have yet to learn to buy waterproof mascara.

I’m glad that Amelia only saw happiness, because one day, when she is a mom, she will know what I mean when I say I’m now suffering from empty passenger seat syndrome.  It’s a selfish malady, I know. I really am thrilled that she is growing up and becoming more independent. Really… although I might need some gentle reminding every now and then. I pray that she will have the great conversations with her child that we could only seem to have in the car. For it was through those car talks that I discovered my daughter’s tender heart for those without a home, her penchant for 80’s music, and her love for VW Beetles. (Robins egg blue, just in case you wondered.) There were numerous other conversations that took place with me ensconced behind the wheel and her safely buckled in beside me. There were mornings where I was the only one doing the talking, because my passenger was a bleary eyed young teen who didn’t always embrace the excitement of a brand new day. There were afternoons when the car just seemed to automatically know the way to the local coffee house. There were many days that the car became a karaoke spot on four wheels. It didn’t matter. The car was our space. We laughed, shared a few secrets, and debated everything from politicians’ choices in pets to music that should be played at goldfish funerals. And when Andy got sick, it became our place to talk and ask questions without any intrusion from the outside world. I’m going to miss our travel time in the car. But, more than that, I’m going to miss the person who sat beside me for the longest time, making observations and keeping me entertained with stories of her day and of her dreams as we waited for the impossibly long light to change at the major intersection near our house. I wish that light could have stayed red just a little longer. But it didn’t. So, off we go, onto the next stage and milestone in life, all the while hoping that one day soon, she will call shotgun, if only for a brief errand. And when that day comes, I hope we catch every single red light.

Drivin' and Cryin' Part Two

I’m positive life has gotten stuck on fast forward and I’ve lost the remote needed to slow it down. Major and minor things have happened behind the scenes since I last wrote. Babies have graduated and headed to college, careers have changed, trips have been traveled, weight has been lost and gained, hair has been grown out only to be cut way too short, planets discovered, friendships made, and steadfast ones strengthened. There has been sickness and health, some tears, but mainly laughter, and driving lessons. Lots and lots of driving lessons.

Steve and I are movin’ on up to that deluxe passenger seat instructor status. We have one successful student under our seat belt, so the second one should be a cake walk, right? Um, yeah… not exactly. Driving with our son and driving with our daughter are not one in the same. Learn from our naivete, people. Take notes if you must. A good teacher will tell you that of course each child learns differently, no matter how many times you have taught the lesson. A parent riding shotgun while your kid discovers the brake and the gas pedal for the first time will tell you that the sharp chest pains brought on by anxiety feel remarkably the same, no matter how many times you have taught the lesson.  There have been differences, of course. With our son, he very much wanted to master the art of steering while selecting music. Our daughter is quite keen on mastering the art of breaking the sound barrier in the church parking lot. Early on, I got in the habit of telling our son every single time he got behind the wheel that he was my treasure, sharing the road with other families’ treasures. I was met with the obligatory eye roll most of the every time. I have noticed however, when I dispense this wisdom to my daughter, she nods in full agreement. I don’t know, maybe it’s a girl thing, maybe it’s the fact that if she agrees, she gets mom’s car keys. Whatever, it’s all good. A good friend of mine reminds me on a regular basis that our darling dependents have to learn these major lessons at some point, because nobody wants their mom driving them to the senior prom.  

Our kids have given us the gift of bunions from constantly keeping us on our toes, but I suppose that’s acceptable. It makes life beautifully vivid and gnaw-your- nails-down-to-the-quick exciting all at the same time. Now, if I could just find that remote to hit the pause button before she walks down the aisle, I’ll be fine. Really, right here in the passenger seat as she steps on the gas, speeding towards adulthood. Thank you, Lord for seat belts. And airbags. Lots and lots of big, billowy airbags.

 

 

Learning to Love the Snowflake

After digging out from the craziness that Snowmageddon 2014 brought to the South, I have snow on the brain. More specifically, snowflakes and how, until recently, I never held a deep appreciation for them. My dislike for them started a number of years ago when a student at my former school stopped by my room to tell me how much she loved the Narnia display featuring hundreds of snowflakes my fellow teachers and I had created throughout our building to garner excitement for The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe book that the 4^th and 5^th graders were reading. I thought that was mighty sweet, considering I didn’t teach her. The next week, the little girl was dead from complications stemming from a childhood illness. From that point on, when I saw a paper snowflake, I felt a sting in my heart. It didn’t help matters that the next year, I lost my birth grandfather in January, once again amidst the snowflakes. It seemed like every year, the symbol of the snowflake brought some sort of heartache right along with it. My disdain for the flake mounted until it reached the point that I couldn’t stand the thought of them adorning a space that I would frequent. That is until this year. A dear friend, a former co-worker turned artist, appeared at my new school with a gigantic snowflake, handcrafted just for me from paper. It was meant as a gift for my new room and it was beautiful, I had to admit. However, taking the snowflake to my room required some courage. I really was hesitant. And then, a wonderful change in prospective happened. A co-worker sent a link to snowflakes and their beauty with a reminder that each one is a magnificent work of art. It got me to thinking about how something that is so intricately and wonderfully made could not possibly be meant to garner such a permanent sadness in my heart.  For the first time in a long time, I was reminded that although the flake will surely melt, God didn’t spare an ounce of His creativity in crafting them. Life is like that, isn’t it? People come into our lives and we just never know what the next day holds, do we? Treasure the gift of those surrounding you. Love them and don’t be shy about letting them know you are glad that they are a part of your life. Even if it means making your kids want to change their names and move to Coeur d’Alene, Idaho when you post a picture on Facebook of you smooching your hubby in the snow!

Breaking the Rules

I’m such a hopeless rule follower. I can’t help it. I come from a long line of school teachers who just instilled it in me. I had no choice but to come under the spell of obedience administered through their no-nonsense teacher voice and the “look” given to me over reading glasses perched so alarmingly low on their noses that they defied the laws of physics. My Grandma Searle was the consummate rule enforcing pro. Not only was she a teacher, but a pianist who often played for the church that my grandfather pastored. I witnessed her turn from her seat at the piano and hush a pew of wiggling, giggling children and never miss a measure of “How Great Thou Art” enough times to know that I didn’t dare move in my seat, no matter how itchy my new dress was.

I was thinking a good bit about my grandparents this Christmas Season. I miss them year round, but the ache always seems a little sharper once the tree is lit and the Lexus commercial starts airing on TV (What’s with that thing anyway???!) This year, I decided to do just a little bit more than visit the memories tucked in my brain. I pulled out some treasured family recipes that had graced our holiday tables in the past. I’m not sure what I was expecting to get out of the whole experience, but the results weren’t quite what I was going for. No matter how carefully I followed the steps, nothing tasted exactly the way I remembered it. I’m positive it’s because I was missing the key ingredient: them.

One recipe did yield a better result, though. That was my Granny Smith’s sugar cookie recipe. Granny was known far and wide for her beautifully decorated cookies and at one point had been featured in a regional magazine highlighting her pre-Pinterest designs.  I remember watching my Granny make those cookies one Christmas in particular. I had come down with chickenpox and was under house arrest until the spots faded. Granny, who was in town on one of her winter-long escapes from her home state of Kansas,  deemed that I was harmless and as long as I stayed in my own little area of the kitchen, I could witness the magic… and… ahem… the secrets to her laborious art. My sweet granny, the one who was so tiny, she had to buy her clothes in the children’s department of Gayfer’s, not only taught me the art of cookie decorating that year, but the art of mild cussing followed by how to properly pour a cold Pabst Blue Ribbon into a glass.  This Christmas, I was all about following her recipe exactly (you know, because of the whole rule follower thing) and realized way too far past the point of no return, that those cookies were a whole lot more work than I had bargained for. Without a second thought, the “secret ingredients” were employed. Granny’s cookies brought a lot of smiles to the faces of those received them and for a very brief period of time, I felt Granny at my side nodding in approval.

I hope that years from now my kids and eventual grandbabies will want to conjure up memories of Christmases past. I pray that I will be able to set aside my “always follow the rules” ways to be real and authentic with them and leave memories that will be seared in their hearts long after I’m gone. And if it involves a recipe that ends with the proper pouring of an ice cold glass of beer, I’m okay with that. But they had better not dream of squirming in church.

Good Times

You know how I wrote all about the importance of the ampersand last week? Well, that particular post was read by more people than any other of our blog posts combined. That was exciting for us! This week, our little ampersand is being put to the test. Don’t you just love how that happens? When I stepped out of the shower this morning onto what is typically a dry floor, I found myself standing in a steadily growing miniature lake. Around the corner I was greeted with soaking wet carpet. Not a good sign. Steve had already left for church, I was short on time, and Amelia was slated for acolyte duties (which we totally missed, by the way). I did the best I could to sop up the water, prayed for the best and went to church. When we got home, the lake had not receded, but at least it hadn’t grown. Now Steve is pulling up carpet, and a plumber has been called. Did I mention that this is also my first full week back at school? Good times!

Now we get the golden opportunity to put our money where our mouths (or carpet and pipes as the case may be) are and lean on that ampersand. I pray that I can face the challenges of this latest test with gentleness, kindness, and self-control. I also hope that I can look at this through grateful eyes and rejoice that we have indoor plumbing, a husband strong enough to tear out carpet like it is paper, and that plumbers are only a phone call away. Hey, I’ve always wanted waterfront property.

Blessings to you for a grateful week, whatever this week may hold.

It’s all about the Ampersand

 

I have been wanting to write this blog for a long while, but life just seemed to, you know… happen. This summer has been far busier than I ever imagined it would be with lots and lots of activities, some new and some familiarly comfortable like a pair of jeans that don’t require sucking anything in to pull them on. The biggest “new” to our family was Andy getting a real, honest-to-goodness-oh-crap-I have-to-go-to-bed-early-because-I-have-to-function-in-the-morning job. I will be the first to admit that I had visions of me getting up to make sure that the kid rolled out of bed on time to at least rinse off and slide the toothbrush across his million dollar (thanks to braces) teeth. Not so. Apparently, I birthed a morning person. Serious shocker given that I wake up, thank Jesus for another day, and promptly roll back over for more shuteye. The perks of summer.

Steve and I also celebrated our 20^th anniversary in June. Although I’m really not sure that “celebrated” is the right word to describe how we marked the occasion. Our anniversary just happened to fall on the day that the boys Chrysalis Flight began. Steve was the lay director and I had lots to do in the background. (For more information on Chrysalis, click here.) He received a twin size, inflatable mattress and three nights away from me. We really need to work on dialing down the romance, don’t we?

While the celebration to mark the occasion wasn’t quite what I had pictured, the one thing that stood out in my mind is that we were in the task together. I don’t take that for granted. That ampersand that joins our names together is something that we value and nurture every chance we get. For us, it is all about the ampersand. It means we are a team. I hope that we have done a good job of demonstrating that to our children. It is my hope and prayer that when the time comes for them to choose their spouse that they will consider the ampersand and the weight it carries. I also hope that they will understand that, like in real estate, location is everything. The ampersand does not just join two humans together, but God. A true cord of three strands. I hope that forever our ampersand will be God, Steve & Katie.

Here's to the Apple that Didn't Fall Far from the Tree

 

     I had to run a few errands last weekend and it was decided that Andy would do the driving on the account of it was raining and he needed some more practice driving in those conditions.  We had just finished up our to-do list when Andy pointed out that we were awfully close to the house that I grew up in and couldn’t we just drive by?  Of course my answer was yes. I don’t know about you, but for me when I drive by the house where the majority of my childhood was spent, I want to laugh, cry, and throw up from homesickness all at the same time.  And those feelings don’t just cut off at the house.  They are there at the crest of the hill where I first learned to ride my bike; they are at the corner where the kind, elderly couple lived that hired me to keep their hummingbird feeders filled one spring. The emotions start churning when I pass the house that belonged to a sweet family that lost their teenage son in a tragic car accident the year I was in eighth grade.  The flood of memories hits me when I glance to the left of my old house, now painted a stark white instead of the cheerful yellow I grew up with, and see the path that leads to the woods where many an adventure came to life with an army of neighborhood kids.  Andy steered the car a little further up the street and the memories kept coming.  And if you know me, you know I couldn’t just keep my thoughts to myself.  I found myself telling Andy all sorts of stories about the good old ‘hood (okay, I’ll admit I threw in a cautionary tale or two... plus, I had a captive audience.)  I miss my old house, the one that I spent ¾ of my childhood in. My parents moved long ago and I haven’t a clue who lives there now.  I only hope that that they have children who will one day have children of their own who will beg them to drive them back by their old home.  I hope that they shed a tear or two, as well. It is the mark of a childhood well spent.

*Update* I received our new school directory not long after I wrote this post.  Lo and behold, what jumps out at me on the very first page I turn to?  My old childhood address!  The kids that live in my old house go to my school!  I made a beeline towards them the next afternoon.  I think they thought I was half-crazed, but as luck would have it, their mom was there to pick them up and I quickly introduced myself.  I think she may have thought I was border line stalker material, but I did my best to explain that I had only happened upon the address thanks to the newly printed school directory.  I tried to convey to her just what that house meant to me.  She smiled and said that she was happy to report that wonderful memories continue to be made in that house.  She told me I was welcome to stop by anytime, but I’m not sure I will take her up on her generous offer. I’m not sure my heart could handle it.

Finding Your Super Power

   

     I live in a household full of super hero aficionados.   I hang around with friends who can successfully (and seriously) argue the strengths and weaknesses of Marvel versus DC Comics.  I don’t usually have a whole lot to add to their discussions, unless they are talking about Wonder Woman.  My friends are quite entertaining to listen to, especially when the topic turns to super powers.

     One discussion we had recently involved Clark Kent and his glasses.  We were on a cruise with some of our very best friends when one night after dinner, our friend took out his contacts and put on his glasses.  The change in demeanor was remarkable.  Our friend, who is normally calm and quiet, became a very lively life of the party.  It was Clark Kent in reverse.  From that point on whenever we saw him in his glasses, we knew we would be captivated by his super power of snarkiness.

     That got me thinking about what my super hero power would be.  Since I am sort of shy and I already possess an associate’s degree from the community college of sarcasm, I seriously doubt that donning my librarian style reading glasses would bring out any hidden power. Although it has been noted by many a fourth grader,  that when I push my glasses down to the end of my nose and peer over them, I have been known to give my students the super power of obedience with just “the look”.  I was kind of bummed that I couldn’t come up with anything more exciting.  Not that I spent that long lamenting over it.  Just a day or three.

     Anyway, we got back from the cruise, I did a face plant into reality and super power discussions were shelved, especially after hearing the sickening accounts of the Aurora, CO movie theater shooting.  I busied myself with getting my classroom ready, preparing my kids to go on a youth mission trip and trying to figure out a way to sweet talk my precious husband into letting me paint our living room peacock blue.  (For the record, I was successful in two out of three of those activities…)

     I’m not sure how I found myself in the little clothing boutique, because I had set out that afternoon to go get some school supplies.  Scouts honor, I was in the market for notebook paper and pencils, not a cute little black dress and another even cuter black dress that fit me in a size smaller than I had been wearing.   And that’s when I saw them… the perfect pair of red (but not too red) pumps!  They beckoned me with their darling little peek-a-boo-toe opening and from that point on, I had to have them.  Since my leg has been hurt, I have pretty much been resigned to wearing “granny shoes”… You know the ones… boring, flat and sensible.  I felt my heart race as I debated whether or not to even try them on, figuring I would never be able to wear them, much less stand up in them.  Well, not only did I stand in them, I could walk in them!  Euphoria came over me as I made my way to the register.  I have never in my life owned a pair of shoes that made me so excited to wear them.  I literally raced home (and by that I mean this by- the-book rule follower rolled through a couple of stop signs instead of coming to a full, complete stop and even entered an intersection on a yellow light).  I tore open the box and slid the shoes onto my feet.  I walked around the house in them for about an hour, stopping every so often to gaze at them in my daughter’s full length mirror. (I’m forty people… the last thing I want in MY room is a full length mirror!)

Yep, I had found my super power in the form of my new red shoes!  I wore them that evening as I discussed a delicate matter with an extended family member. The shoes gave me a new found confidence.   I dealt with another matter, not quite so delicate, but one that required some tough decision making that had been weighing heavy on my heart for quite a long time and breezed through it confidently as I wore my new shoes.  And yes, I am sure I looked like a total dork sitting at the computer wearing my t-shirt, shorts and my beloved new shoes.  But I didn’t care.  Just like the glasses had changed not only our friend’s appearance but his personality, these shoes gave me some confidence that I had been lacking for a good while.  Maybe Wonder Woman was right after all.  It is all about the accessories.

Now, in all seriousness, I know it isn’t really about the physical clothing or the accessories that give you any sort of “power” but I do find comfort in the fact that we are directed in Ephesians to put on the armor of God.

Eph 6:10-17 (NIV) ...Be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled round your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.

  And so I will put on my full armor of God (the only being who posses true super power) each and every day, standing my ground against evil.  Just don’t judge me if I do it while wearing my cute new shoes.

                                                                                   

 

Oh, Randolph Mantooth… Where are You?!

     So most everybody that reads this blog knows that I have had quite the adventure these past six weeks with a suspected tendon tear, discovery of a benign bone tumor,  a blood clot that required a four day hospital stay, my body fighting the anti-coagulant,  and ongoing physical therapy.  It has been a crazy ride, but God has been so sweet to us through all of it, even down to allowing my family to enjoy some fabulous down time together while I have recuperated at home.  One of our favorite things to do together is gather around the television and watch TV shows from when Steve and I were kids, thanks to Netflix.  One of the shows that we have introduced the kids to is Emergency! It first aired in 1972 starring Randolph Mantooth and Kevin Tighe.  Steve and I both grew up watching the show and get all reminiscent from the moment we hear the iconic emergency notification in the opening sequence.  Let me tell ya… they really don’t make shows like that anymore.  No siree. 

     For those not familiar with Station 51 and Rampart General, let me fill you in:  Station 51 is the firehouse that cutie pie paramedics John Gage (Mantooth) and Roy Desoto (Tighe) are assigned to.  They, along with the other firemen respond to 911 calls in and around the Los Angeles area.  Just about every call demands a daring, nail biting rescue.  Once John and Roy assess the victims, they make a call into Rampart General using what only can be described as a prehistoric precursor to a cell phone. (If you only watch for that, you will be highly entertained!) Once Rampart receives the call, one of the medical staff quickly answers.  It is there that Dr. Kelly Brackett, more often than not, wisely advises John and Roy what to do next.  (BTW, he is also a cutie with his 1970’s mutton chops and rocks a very wide necktie.) Usually they are instructed to transport the patient to Rampart where they are looked after by the capable staff that includes Dr. Brackett, Dr. Joe Early and Dixie McCall, R.N.  The characters are based on the real life doctors and medical staff that trained these first responders making paramedic a household word.

     As fun and exciting as it is to watch Emergency!, it would never last in today’s market.  That’s because there isn’t enough dirt to dish on the characters. No affairs, no outing of lifestyles, no voting off the island.  Just good old adventure.  I am not sure what we will find to watch next after we finish the 100 episodes of Emergency!   Who knows, maybe we will walk on the wild side and witness Half-Pint tell Nellie Olsen off over in Walnut Grove.  Maybe.  Or maybe we will just sit back and re-watch Gage and Desoto pluck another victim from one disaster or another, all the while wishing that life really did come with a Station 51.

Running Naked… Trust me; it’s NOT what you think!

About two years ago I lost my mind and decided to start running… for FUN! Apparently the mind loss is long term, because I have managed to keep up the insanity and even enter a handful of local races. I have done the race thing enough times now that I have a rigid ritual in place prior to every event. I won’t pain you with the OCD details, but one of the first things I do is make sure my iPod is fully charged and ready to go. Running is fun, to an extent, but there are times when it is just you and the sound of your own gasping breath. That’s when DJ Einstein (Google him) and Justin Timberlake (told ya I was insane) swoop in and save the day. I pretty much have my playlist set to fit the hills and valleys of my running route. I am most definitely a creature of habit and music helps feed that habit.
That is why I was so disappointed to read that a race I was interested in entering was banning the use of any type of music devices. The organizers cited safety concerns and after viewing the course, I certainly saw their reasoning. With winding country roads populated by drivers not accustomed to seeing animals of the two legged variety with numbers pinned to their fronts sharing the road, this truly was a wise decision on the their part. I just couldn’t wrap my head around how I was going to participate in a race without anything but the thud of running shoes slapping the pavement to keep me company. I decided that the race just wasn’t for me.
I moved on to the next event that embraced earbuds and that was that. Kind of. For some reason, I kept thinking about running without music. I did a little research on it and lo and behold, found quite a few articles bestowing the virtues of “running naked”. (Let me stop right here and clarify I am not talking about the Naked Mile kind of running!) Not only did these folks advocate running without music, but they eschewed watches and any other running gadgets as well, claiming that being free to run without the time constraints and just listening to what’s going on around you is what running is all about. Yay for them. They probably grow their own sprouts and make their own yogurt, too. While I have no plans to take their running advice to heart, it did make me think about how the running naked theory applies to another area of my life. How many times in my daily spiritual walk do I become a creature of habit going through the motions? Do I make it a habit to run naked spiritually and actively listen to God speak to me? Or am I too busy calculating the next hill and relying on my own devices to see me through? How often do I really embrace Psalm 46:10 “Be still and know I am God.”? While I really don’t see myself giving up running with music or my trusty runner’s watch for that matter, I am going to challenge myself to be more open to running naked in 2012 when it comes to my quiet time. And sorry Steve, but that won’t have any impact on the clothing budget either.

There's Something in the Water

Andy got back from the youth mission week full of exciting news. The group had helped a family move, got the church food pantry set up in a new location and witnessed to the homeless in downtown Atlanta. Andy was telling us about everything when his face and tone grew very serious. Steve and I braced ourselves for what might be coming next. Very quietly Andy said, “Mom, Dad, I have seen the future… of drink machines!” Surprised at this revelation, but strangely moved to delve deeper into this change of topic in conversation, we discovered that there is a new kind of soft drink machine that will allow you to not only chose your poison at the touch of a button, but allows you to add cherry, vanilla, raspberry, grape, lemon, orange and lime to your concoction. Our son and the rest of the youth group had encountered this wonderful little invention on a dinner break in Atlanta.
Since Andy was fresh off a mission trip and in the I-want- to–serve- others- always -and -forever mode, I decided to take advantage of it and have him help me with some chores I had left to do at school. He agreed to accompany me and work at getting my room ready. I agreed to treat him to lunch at Zaxby’s, which we discovered had just installed one of these heavenly little drink machines Andy was so taken with. That afternoon, Andy and I ran into a co-worker of mine. As we chatted about school and how our rooms were coming along, she asked Andy how I had bribed him to help me. Figuring he would say he did it for lunch and a date with a futuristic soda fountain, I was stunned when he simply shrugged and said, “Na, I just got to spend time with my mom. That was pretty cool.” Wow! Either mission week had a larger impact than I thought, or there is magic in that Coke machine! Until I can figure it out, I think I will take the boy back out to lunch… at Zaxby’s.

Rails and Tales

Last week, Steve and I, along with two good friends, packed up the kids and boarded an Amtrak train headed for New Orleans. Since it had been forever and a day since Steve and I had traveled by train, we weren’t quite sure what to expect, but figured that reaching our destination would be half the fun. Let me tell ya, within five minutes of entering the train station, we got ourselves an upgrade on that fun ticket and not once during the entire seven hour trip to New Orleans did we hear a child ask, “Are we there yet?”.
The train was running an hour behind schedule, so that gave our little party of six more than enough time to sit in the tiny shoebox of a station and assess the personalities that would be joining us on the journey. It was immediately apparent that we had two large groups that would be making the trip to The Big Easy with us. One group of 30 or so was headed to a family reunion. Grandmamma, great grandmamma, and an assortment of aunts, uncles and cousins were sprinkled across the small waiting area. I liked this group. They laughed, they hugged, they set up a fabulous picnic complete with fried chicken right there on the brown naugahyde seats in the waiting room. The second group was comprised mostly of middle aged women headed to their 30th high school reunion. Since the family reunion group had captured my attention and caused me to crave some greasy fried goodness, I didn’t take much notice of this second group. After all, they seemed pretty tame…HA! We just hadn’t met “Juiced up Joyce” yet.
Once on board the train, it didn’t take long to realize that this high school reunion group had a ring leader: Joyce. She laughed loudly, drank loudly and much to my delight, told juicy, gossipy stories even louder. That is how I became acquainted with the sad tale of an ugly baby Hermanie Grace. The following is an excerpt of their hard-not-to-be-overheard conversation:
Joyce: (eating pineapple chunks that she has been soaking in overpriced vodka purchased from the lounge car) Catherine, did you hear what that Georgina child named her baby?
Catherine: (between bites of chicken she has brought on board with her) No, Joyce… didn’t know she had had that baby.
Joyce: Well, she did and that mama named her baby Hermanie Grace.
Catherine: That’s a pretty name.
Joyce: No it ain’t. Now what that is is a tribute. Givin’ that baby an ugly name for an ugly daddy.
Catherine: Is she a pretty baby?
Joyce: Lord no, Catherine! With Herman as her daddy?! What do you think? That baby is named Hermanie Grace so people will know why she looks that way… bless her heart and Herman’s.
I have no idea if this story is true or not, but if I EVER meet someone named Hermanie Grace, I will more than likely wet my pants.
Our journey continued and by the time we had reached Picayune, Mississippi, we had made friends with Joyce and company, knew all about their weekend plans (liquid refreshments and visiting the casino were high on their agenda), made the acquaintance of three guys sitting behind us (who I highly suspect did not have meeting women anywhere on their agenda), and had been taken on a tour of a roomette (which I kid you not included a most lively demonstration of how the bed came out of the ceiling by one very animated, very Bea Arthur adoring, steward named Kyle). With bellies full of microwaved cheeseburgers purchased from the diner car and hearts filled with delight at the interesting and unique people we had met on this leg of the journey, we settled back in our seats and witnessed one of the most glorious sunsets we had ever seen as our train chugged over Lake Ponchartrain. Yep, ridin’ the rails beats a game of license tag Bingo any day in my book…
There is more to this story… I mean we had to get home after all onboard yet another train. But that tale, which involves legs being left in luggage, will have to wait for another day.

**The names have been changed to protect the innocent, guilty, and obnoxious.

Drivin’ and Cryin’

So Andy got his Learner’s Permit this past week. We have heard friends lament about their children getting behind the wheels of their cars, but it never occurred to us just what a big milestone ( or a stronger argument for OTC Xanax) this really is until we found ourselves calling shotgun next to the person who refers to us as Mom and Dad.
The first driving lesson was a family event complete with video footage thanks to a bored younger sister. Steve, who I might add did a brief stint as a driver’s ed teacher, took Andy for a spin around the church parking lot. I was buckled in the backseat, resigned to keep my mouth shut. HA! That didn’t exactly work for me. Andy couldn’t even put the car into gear before I started baptizing him with driver’s wisdom. Suddenly I felt compelled to warn him of every real or imagined threat he might ever encounter on the roads of America. I also felt the need to confess every driving sin I have ever committed. (I blame that part on the setting though.) And for some absurd reason, I felt the need to parrot Steve’s instructions with the addition of the word “Gentle” tacked on to every directive.
Steve: Andy, take a right turn up ahead.
Me: Andy, take a GENTLE right turn up ahead!
Steve: Stop to the left of the light pole.
Me: Make a GENTLE stop to the left of the light pole!
He did a great job and managed to take four laps around the parking lot without any insurance claims being made. Nobody jumped from the car to kiss the solid ground beneath them and everyone was still speaking to each other.
The second driving lesson went even better. After watching Amelia’s film footage of the first lesson, I decided to mend my ways and just zip my lips and let Andy drive. And you know what? He did just fine.

Higher Education

Wow! It’s been a long time since the Kissin’ Couple has had an update! I would love to tell you it’s because Steve and I have been on a fantastic, three-month cruise, touring the world, soaking up the traditions of some exotic culture. Not quite. Well, except for the culture part. Steve and I have enrolled ourselves in “The Lifestyle of the High School Student 101” and “How to Speak Conversational English with Your Teenager.” The classes are being taught by our son. It has been enlightening, let me tell ya. Naturally, we have anticipated these courses since we have been on the waiting list for 15 years. Being the smarty pants that we are, we felt that we were more than ready for this. I mean we have DEGREES from actual universities that state in a very fancy font that we are qualified to teach. This is just a simple little continuing education class, right?! WRONG! We have had awesome advisors who have told us that these classes are lengthy and tough, but worth it in the end. The professor is hard. I am fairly certain that he thinks that we qualify for Special Ed. We have been told numerous times that we don’t know anything. Steve and I have persevered, though. We seek counseling from a very wise Heavenly Father and consult our Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth textbook on a continual basis. Steve and I are in it for the long haul. We have no choice. Andy brought in a guest lecturer earlier this week: his pre-teen sister. From that experience, I can only surmise that she teaches the graduate level courses.

Big Girl Woes

So this week has pretty much been a rotten week. It has been filled with tension and conflict. Feelings have been squashed, lines have been drawn in the linoleum, and eyes have been set to glare mode. Not a beautiful day in the neighborhood to say the least. And I have hated every minute of it. Go ahead, ask Steve. He will tell you that I really do detest conflict. I try and avoid it at all costs. But this week was different. Although the tensions and conflicts were not involving me directly, I had to step in and complete two tasks that required putting on the proverbial big girl panties. And you know what comes with big girl panties? A big girl wedgie. I hate that uncomfortable feeling of awkwardness that follows asserting yourself in unpleasant situations.
Sigh….. What a week! I would like to tell you that the whole time I asked myself, "What would Jesus do?" Instead I found myself asking what my grandmother would do. She died 30 years ago this week. I miss her. I remember her being wonderfully patient and kind towards others. But at the same time, I also remember getting a stinger of a reminder on the backside to never sass and never, ever under any circumstances turn on the oven to make Shrinky Dinks without her permission. A wonderfully kind woman, my grandmother, but I really don't think that shrinking violet would describe her. (She once painted a gigantic smiley face on the outside of her garage door!) And I don't think she would have been too happy with me had I just kept my mouth shut and let things slide. A big girl’s gotta to do what a big girl’s gotta do and that means standing up for what is right… even if you just want to sit right back down, hide your face, change your name to Blanche Mushrush and move to Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.
I am happy to report that I made it through this current drama with my face uncovered, my name unchanged and current residence still intact. Have I learned something about myself this week? You bet. I’ve learned that next time I’m going straight for the big guns… the Granny Panties.

With friends like these….

Steve and I are totally blessed to have friendships with couples who consistently model what it means to be in a strong marriage. One of our favorite couples goes to church with us and has children roughly the same age as ours. They are a hoot. 24/7. It never fails, whenever we get together, our sides are going to hurt the next day from laughing so much. Take the time we decided to make a trip to Birmingham for some cheesecake and ended up picking out the caskets of our dreams (or urns as was the case with one member of our party).
My sister and I had a chance to chat about friends who bless our lives at a recent birthday party. She had just come back into town after spending the day with her husband’s side of the family. I remarked that she looked so calm, cool and collected. (She is the mom of a red headed two-year-old.) Her lipstick was expertly applied and not a hair out of place. Now my sister is very pretty no matter what, but that day she just looked extra serene… too serene ( I did mention that she has a two-year-old, right?!) So I did the sisterly thing and asked her if she was sedated. After assuring me she was just fine, thank you very much, (insert eye rolling here) she filled me in on why she looked like she was ready for a photo shoot. You see, they had been visiting friends of friends when she sat down in a chair that is normally occupied by the family dog. Apparently the dog loves this chair as much as Archie Bunker loves his. Except this dog did not feel the need to read the newspaper in his own private “library”. He thought, “Hey, why move to do my business when I can just sit here?” I guess this family did not feel the urge to fill my sister in on where she had planted herself for the afternoon… in 145 degree weather… in shorts. It wasn’t until they were headed back to their home a good hour and a half away that she discovered the Eau de Awful that had permeated her skin. After a very long, very hot shower and a do-it yourself micro peel, she felt like she was fit to be around those of us with noses. Bless her heart. That was just outright tacky of those folks not tell Sister that she was sitting on Bowser’s throne. I think a trip to Birmingham for cheesecake is in order for her. And if that doesn’t cheer her up, then I will swing by the coffin wholesaler and let her shop for when she drops. Hey, that’s what true friends do.

Okie Dokie Artichokie

Steve and I are suckers. Well, okay, maybe me just a little bit more than him, but it is hard for us to say the word “no”, especially when it comes to church and especially when it comes to one music minister in particular who shall remain nameless. Yesterday, my big ol’ mouth formed the word yes when I was asked to direct the Christmas Drama for church. No sooner had I uttered the “Y” word when that nasty, stinkin’ Satan started throwing a hissy fit in my brain. The nerve of that devil, after a wonderful sermon on pride and all. Well, he got me, but only for an afternoon.
You see, for the past two months, Steve and I have been praying for a ministry to get involved in. We had been very heavily involved with leading little people in worship for the past 8 years, and felt God tugging at our hearts to head back to “Big Church” and serve there. Now, in our hearts and minds, that included things like delivering flowers to shut-ins and preparing communion elements. Heck, we weren’t about to become pew potatoes and just sit there. We were ready to serve. Quietly…Behind the scenes…Preferably once a month. The even ones would fit nicely with our schedule. HA! That is not quite what God has had in mind. Oh no, uh-uh. Since we have left little people worship (I use that term with the utmost respect. It is the hardest ((they smell fear))and most rewarding ((their rib-crushing hugs are the best!)) job you’ll ever have.), God has called me to serve in VBS, be a lay director for a Chrysalis Flight, and totally change jobs from serving 52 fourth graders a year to serving 527 pre-k through 5th graders each week, and now this. Steve has been serving right by my side every single minute. When you ask one of us, you are going to get both of us and more than likely, our off-spring, too. Sort of like a buy 1, get 3 free kind of deal we have going on here.
Anyway, I digress. Serving quietly behind the scenes, my foot. And that my 4 blog-followers, is where Satan got me. He got me good. That rotten, slitherin’ snake can drive you to forget your Sunday School words, I tell you what. But after the “what in the blankety-blank were you thinking?” and “who are you freakin’ kidding”… moments passed, I was okay. God wants us to serve Him with a glad heart. I’m glad I said yes. I’m glad I live in a country where I am free to serve. I’m glad that I have a husband who will gladly serve right along side of me. No, I might not be the most gifted and talented director on the block, and I really hope that people don’t slap their hand to their foreheads bemoaning the fact they could have had a V-8 by the time it’s all said and done. But I have been given an opportunity to serve with my husband and partner in crime. And I am glad that I didn’t just say yes to the music minister, but Okie Dokie to God.

Fearfully and Wonderfully Made

I spent Saturday morning scrubbing the grout in our bathroom. I really wanted to wait until the mildew at least spelled the word “help”, but we were at h-e-l, and I feared what the next letter might be. So I scrubbed with bleach… with Steve’s toothbrush. Our daughter, who is a born neatnic, walked into the bathroom and said, “Oh, Momma! I just LOVE that smell! It smells like love and clean houses.”
I know what you are thinking, and yes, she really is our child. (And if you were thinking about Steve’s toothbrush, don’t worry; he got a new one that afternoon.) She has always gravitated to the neater things in life. We went to Atlanta last year and went shopping at the Container Store. She was in heaven. Did you know that they make organizers to organize the organizers? And colorful labels to label the label maker? Good times, I tell you. For her anyway.
Now don’t get me wrong and before you go dialing DHR, let me tell you: I do appreciate walking into a clean house. I like the beds made, dishes out of the sink and a reasonable sense of order. I am just not a deep cleaner. Word has spread to the dust bunnies that they won’t be evicted anytime soon. But I am house-proud enough to have made a compact with my friend Molly that when I kick the bucket, she is to by-pass the funeral home and get herself over to our house lickety split. She has to get there ahead of the United Methodist-casserole-carrying-sweet-saints that always show up in the event of a death. Her job is to speed clean the house and relocate the mountain of dirty laundry I will have undoubtedly left behind. I have sworn that I will do the same for her, should she be stricken first.
Steve and I are equally yoked in this area of our lives. He hates to do laundry as much as I do. We will talk about doing the laundry, even be so bold as to put it on our to-do list (in red ink mind you!), cast furtive glances at it as we casually toss another pair of socks on the pile. But somehow, it just never seems to take precedence over whatever it is that we have deemed a top priority at that moment. That’s where our daughter’s cleaning obsession bails us out. Hey, you do what you have to do for the kids.
I was waiting to pay my weekly cover charge at the grocery store yesterday when I read that Jennifer Anniston was quoted as saying she doesn’t need a husband to have a baby. That is just so, so, so very sad on so many different levels. I mean after all, whose toothbrush is she going to use when her grout gets dirty?

A Cord of Three Strands

Recently, our teenage son came into the kitchen for an hourly feeding. He caught us in mid-smooch. Groans and "That's soooooo disgusting!" comments were made. Still embracing me, my husband looked him dead in the eyes and said, "Son, you'd better be glad that your mom and I kiss. There are lots of kids out there that wish their parents were together. You are blessed with two parents in the same house that love you, care about you and when needed, light a double burner under your tail to get you moving in the right direction." Wow! My husband is a wise man. That encounter sparked a conversation that in turn led us to this blog about our marriage, life with a teenager and his sister, who is still young enough to be considered angelic.

We are a fun-loving couple that loves to travel and spend lots of time with friends and family. We love the Lord! We believe that we have been given this gift of marriage and we want to honor God by nurturing and caring for our relationship by keeping God at the center of everything that we do. "Our" verse is Ecclesiastes 4:12 "Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken."

We named our blog The Kissin' Couple because it was that kitchen kiss that led us to this spot. Come follow us as we take this journey through life hand in hand, heart to heart, and a kiss or two along the way!